Morning
by bornatexasgirl
Summary: He kisses and touches every inch of her skin, memorizes all of her little sounds and sighs, and how to pull a certain response from her. How to completely undo her. And, god, does he do it well.


A soft slope of peaches-and-cream, curves and plains, and a smattering of freckles.

His wayward fingers walk down her spine, warm palm pressing intimately into the small of her back. Auburn lashes flutter, once, twice, against her cheekbones but she remains submersed in the depths of whatever dream her subconscious has conjured for her. Her back rises, arching underneath his hand with every deep, slow breath and he revels in the feel of her skin, of warm silk against the rough calloused skin of his palm. Her heavy breasts pressing into the mattress, the soft jersey cotton sheet and comforter gathered at her waist, and legs tangled with his. Her head is nudged into a pillow, a tangle of red hair curling against the nape of her neck and just teasing the prominences of her shoulder blades.

The cool white of daybreak peeks through the curtains, pouring stripes of soft light along the hardwood floor, slipping intimately along the pool of wrinkles the covers had become at their feet. The sun will follow soon, a splash of gold to break up the white and send mercury skyward, once more. The plunge below seventy from the night before only lasting until the sun's ascent into the sky is complete. But, it also means, he'll have to wake her and their day will begin. Thoughts of cases and criminals and Ops and fieldwork and _Hetty_ will fill their day, or days as is so often the case.

He likes this, though.

Being here, with her, when she's still asleep and her face is so peaceful and her breathing is so even and deep, that he matches it, in hopes of absorbing whatever tranquility she finds in her dreams. She seems to open up in her sleep, face no longer awkwardly pinched between frustration and the _shut-up-Eric,_ that lingers on the tip of her tongue. She's soft and ethereal and melts into him when his arms find her in the middle of the night, when he needs the comforting warmth of her body pressed against him. When he needs her to chase the nightmares away.

He shifts, arching up to hover just over her, one elbow supporting his weight and the other hand trailing along her arm until he finds her hand, fingers interlacing instinctively. He dips his head, nuzzling into her hair, seeking the pliant flesh at the base of her neck. She smells of lemons and vanilla and something that smells a little like California honey. Arousal coils, hot and sharp, in his stomach and when he presses his lips against her soft skin, it pulls tighter.

"Nell," all raspiness and damp heat. "Nell."

"Hmmm."

He feels her sleepy moan more than he hears it, feels the vibrations down her back, and the way her fingers tighten in his. His eyes slowly move upward, watching her eyes open only to close again, and she releases a huff of breath across his sheet. Her hand tangles in the fitted sheet as he continues kissing the base of her neck. Her back arches under his mouth, feeling the scrape of his lips and teeth moving down her spine.

"G," she huffs his name when his mouth comes to a sudden stop.

"Nell," he laughs against her, making his way upward. His teeth scrape an erotic trail across her shoulders and down her biceps. "Hmm. You taste good."

She feels every fiery inch of him.

Hard muscle and body heat, thrumming, throbbing with arousal against her back; legs tangled with hers beneath knotted sheets. One arm supporting his weight, while he uses the other to hold her in place - not that she would move, nor would he ever dream of actually holding her down, if she wanted to do so - and the humid heat of his mouth scrapes an intimate trail down her back and across her shoulders and arms. She knows, without looking at him, that he's committing to memory every sound she makes and what he did to elicit that particular noise from her.

Nell rolls beneath him, settling onto her back, effectively rousing him up to look at her. Blown out pupils and dark irises greet her and his breathlessness should shock her more than it does. His lips curl reverently, and he slowly crawls up her body.

"Morning." his cheek is slightly scratchy when he buries his face in her neck.

It's been about a week since he last shaved.

His job description didn't specifically require that he sport a clean shaven, buzz cut, it was just Callen's preference. It's easy and comfortable, especially for someone who lives a largely Nomadic lifestyle, like he tends to do. But, lately, she's noticed he's stopped shaving every morning, and his buzz cut is slowly growing out into thick, silky bronze hair, that she _so_ loves to rake her fingers through and drive him insane. His razor goes largely untouched for however many days and nights he spends with her.

"Hmm." Nell is willing to acknowledge the existence of morning, but it will go no further until either, one of two things - sex, or caffeine. Or both. Really, her preference lies in the former, because the latter may or may not involve Callen. And, the former just feels so damn good. "Is it?"

"Almost eight." Callen's soft vibrato laugh rolls through her. "Up, soon."

His hips shift.

 _Yes._

Her cheeks flush, and she feels the damp warmth of her arousal pooling between her legs. His hips shift again, only this time his hands follow, and she feels him hooking his thumb onto the lace waistband of her underwear and pulling them down her legs. He pulls away from her, laughing when she whimpers at the loss of contact. It is unlike Nell to make such a noise but when he's spent so much time on foreplay, only to delay the best part, she feels like he's depriving her.

"Breathe, Nell." Callen tosses the scrap of purple lace over his shoulder.

And, this...well, this is where G. Callen really feel like he excels at something aside from being a field agent.

Yes - he's been with plenty of other women, in the past, but this is different. This is _Nell_. All brazen fire and smart as a whip. She is bold and gorgeous and knows exactly what to say or what to do to throw him for a total loop. She is the personification of Lionel Penrose's paradox staircase; contradictory in her very nature. And, he _worships_ her. He kisses and touches every inch of her skin, memorizes all of her little sounds and sighs, and how to pull a certain response from her.

How to completely undo her.

And, god, does he do it well.


End file.
